


Man Down

by litlebritain



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Murder Mystery, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 00:01:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4725173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/litlebritain/pseuds/litlebritain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone doesn't want the truth to come out. Someone is so desperate that they are perfectly willing to break into a police station and seriously assault an officer to steal some incriminating evidence. It just so happens that the officer is Morse. Morse is injured TWICE and Thursday is not happy.<br/>This is my first feature length fanfic, so I would love reviews :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What was that noise?

**Author's Note:**

> The crime/mystery of the story isn't very strong. I'm focusing on the relationships between the characters and the hurt comfort aspect.

Morse was sitting alone in the duty room, pondering the evidence gathered from his latest case. Normally, all such artefacts were locked in the evidence room when the duty inspector clocked off, but tonight it was different. A bin fire caused by an errant cigarette had resulted in the evidence room being rendered uninhabitable, and a desk Sergeant being transferred to the Outer Hebrides. Until the room was repaired, all evidence was to be locked in the investigating officer's filing cabinet – Thursday had taken the envelope from Morse's desk and locked it away with an apologetic grimace, leaving Morse to examine his mental images of the items.

On this occasion, the killer had got clumsy, and left some vital evidence behind – a fake mustache and a lock of ginger hair in the victim's clenched fist. At first, Morse was pretty confident of an early arrest – there were two suspects sporting redhead locks. However, with cast iron alibi's, and Jakes increasingly snide comments about interrogating all the ginger people of Oxford (Including Morse with his own dubious locks), the young constable was growing ever increasingly frustrated.

Jeanie Brocks had been murdered whilst walking home through a park. Her handbag still contained her money and valuables, so clearly robbery wasn't the motive. According to her friends and family, she didn't have any enemies, and hadn't been involved in any altercations in the past few years. She was all in all a quiet, guarded person, so Morse was struggling to find any rhyme or reason to her death.

As a distant clock struck 1am, Morse thought he heard a noise from the corridor outside the outer duty room, and when he got up and looked the door was open. Morse distinctly remembered Jakes slamming it on his way out after his latest snide jibe about Morse's neglected reports, so he got up to go and investigate.

He crept through the room, his pounding heartbeat echoing in his mouth and the sound of silence ringing in his ears. Suddenly, he sensed someone rise up behind him and spun round, his heart racing wildly.

"Strange! What are you doing here? Apart from frightening me half to death," Morse was clutching one hand over his heart, and only now became aware of the fact that his other hand was holding a heavy glass paperweight.

"Sorry Morse, I was walking past and I thought I heard movement, so I came in to see what was what." Strange was eyeing the paperweight Morse was holding, his own hand still on the handle of his baton.

"That was me, coming to look for the noise I heard in the corridor, which was you," Morse put the paperweight down, and started stroking his chin to give his hands something to do.

"Ah ok, guess we've both earned our jobs huh?" Strange's grin was met by a small smile from Morse.

"Ok matey, I'm on nightshift, so I'd best be off. You want to stop by my desk for a cuppa before you head off?" Strange started walking towards the door.

"Uhh thanks, but I think I'll stay for a little while longer." Something was bothering Morse about the evidence, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"Ok, night then Matey," Strange turned and walked away, and by the time Morse came out of his reverie to return the greeting, his colleague was gone.

What strange had failed to mention was that the door was already open when he arrived. What Morse had failed to notice was that one of the cupboard doors was slightly ajar.

As he turned to walk back to his desk, once again he sensed someone behind him, but this time he wasn't quick enough to turn and get his arm up to protect himself. Instead, the full force of the paperweight came crashing down on his skull. Morse saw the ground rushing up to meet him, then there was darkness.


	2. Ouch

Jakes was early for work for once. His car had been booked into the garage at 7.45 am, so there was no point in returning to his flat after dropping it off. Upon getting to the duty room, the first thing that he noticed was that the door was ajar. Strange, he knew Morse was very meticulous about making sure it was locked on his way out – unless he hadn't gone home last night? Not the first time in recent days Jakes would have found Morse slumped over his desk, pale and pinched and smelling of yesterday's aftershave. Thinking no more of it, Jakes walked towards his desk. It took him a few moments to take in the form of his colleague spread-eagled on the floor. It took him a few more moments to comprehend what he was seeing.

He swore, and rushed over to kneel beside Morse's head. He and Morse never had and never would be the best of friends, but nevertheless, there was such a feeling of relief when he found a faint but steady pulse from Morse's neck. He picked up the phone from the desk next to him and punched in a number, spoke a few sharp words then put it down again. Upon closer inspection of Morse's inanimate form, he couldn't see any blood, but he wasn't sure if this was a good or bad thing. All he knew from his brief first aid training was not to move him under any circumstances.

He heard smart footsteps, and looked up to see DeBryn entering the room carrying his medical bag.

"You called?" DeBryn enquired from the doorway.

"Over here Doctor, Morse is hurt." Jakes was trying to hide the flood of unwanted concern that he felt with that sentence.

"What do you… bloody hell!" DeBryn didn't even falter for a second as his training kicked in, and he automatically crouched down to check Morse's pulse.

"Pulse is faint but steady, and I don't like the colour of his face," Debryn voiced what Jakes had already noticed.

He gently lifted Morse's eyelids to check his pupils, and this seemed to be the magic touch. Morse groaned into life, his eyelids flickering then settling open, scrunched up against the sunlight streaming through the window.

"Wh..wai…huh?" Morse groaned, looking up at the doctor with eyes showing pain and confusion.

"Morse, it's me, DeBryn. Can you tell me what happened?"

Morse tried to sift back through his jumbled memories, and came up with nothing. The sunlight was intensifying his horrendous headache so Jakes, reading the look on his face, got up and pulled the blind across the window.

It was starting to come back to him now. Hearing a noise, speaking to strange, then realising too late that a cupboard door was open. Then a smack, pain like he had never felt before, and darkness.

"I… well… I think I heard a noise, was looking around, and someone must have hit me from behind," Morse's face was screwed up with the effort of trying to remember.

"Can you remember anything about them? What they looked like, or what they were wearing?" Jakes' couldn't stop himself.

"I'm sorry Sergeant, but I must ask you not to question him in this state. Can't you see how serious this injury is?" DeBryn interjected, peering over his glasses at Jakes with stern eyes.

"Of course, just my automatic questions. Sorry Doctor." Jakes got up to go and sort out the outer duty room which was beginning to fill with people. He told all the officers who normally worked in the two duty rooms to find themselves a spare bit of desk elsewhere, and came back in closing the door to block out the noise.

Morse was trying to sit up but DeBryn was having none of it, and had his hand firmly on his shoulder holding him on the ground. He wrapped a spare blanket Jakes had produced over Morse's shivering figure, then very gently started palpitating Morse's neck and skull with his fingers, looking for any potential fractures.

"Can't find any breakages, but we should still get an x-ray done. He's going to need at least a few days rest in a hospital bed," DeBryn had to raise his voice to speak over Morse's protests.

Jakes looked the most smug Morse had ever seen him as he picked up the phone to call for an ambulance.

"Do you have any idea how long you were out for?" DeBryn enquired of Morse.

"Sorry doc, I forgot to ask the assailant to let me set my stopwatch before he smacked me."

DeBryn rolled his eyes to the ceiling, and Jakes sniggered, impressed at the sass his colleague could display even when heavily concussed.

"I think I remember a clock striking one just before I noticed the door open."

At this point, the door banged open, causing Morse to wince and bringing in an annoyed looking Thursday who was looking over his shoulder at the overcrowded duty room.

"Jakes, what in the name of every-" Thursday stopped dead, taking in the scene before him.

"Looks like someone broke in here last night Sir. Gave Morse here a right good clocking over the head with that paperweight. The doc here has had a look, so we're just waiting on the ambulance" Jakes had a cigarette in his hand and was doing a brilliant job of looking politely disinterested.

"Thank you Sergeant, I'll take over from here then. Perhaps you could go and do something about that ruckus next door?"

As Jakes left, Thursday came and knelt beside Morse, the fatherly instinct inside him taking control.

"Well lad, someone has done you over good and proper, haven't they?" Thursday was talking in his voice that instantly conveyed calm, and both he and the doctor had noted that Morse had visibly relaxed on Thursday's arrival.

DeBryn was glad of Thursday's arrival and the extra discipline it entailed – he was the only one whose authority Morse respected, which would make it much easier to get him to proper medical attention.

Momentarily free of DeBryns restraining hands, Morse sat bolt upright, his skin now positively green. Even with his lightning reactions, the pathologist only just managed to get a bin under Morse's mouth before the young officer retched and vomited noisily into it. It was at moments like this that the doctor was glad that concussion wasn't a condition he ever rally had to deal with in his line of work.

"Alright lad, its ok just get it up," Thursday put a hand behind Morse's shoulder to hold him up, and gently rubbed his back with the other.

"Sorry Sir," Morse gasped, re-emerging from the bucket looking a slightly healthier colour.

"No need to apologise Morse," Thursday said as he handed Morse his hanky to wipe his mouth.

Bright then appeared, showing the ambulance crew into the room. Thursday cursed inwardly, wishing that Bright could have remained in the dark about the incident until Morse was safely in hospital, but then there was no point in trying to hide anything from Bright's all reaching omniscience.

With DeBryns help, the ambulance men got Morse into a stretcher and wheeled him through the duty room and corridor which Jakes had somehow managed to completely empty. Thursday was surprised by the lack of complaint from Morse, but by this stage he was struggling to keep his heavy eyes open.

Bright followed them out to the carpark, then stood watching awkwardly as the stretcher was loaded into the ambulance. Seeing the look of panic on Morse's face when he was wheeled away into the vehicle, Thursday climbed up the steps into the ambulance to accompany his young colleague to the hospital.


	3. Hospital

Jakes strode along the hospital corridor and sat down on a seat next to Thursday.

"Jakes? I thought you were to talk to PC Strange about last night?"

"I'm sorry Sir, but Bright wants to see both of us in his office at 11am. With Morse's statement." Jakes couldn't quite hide the undercurrent of dislike he felt for the Chief Super.

Thursday's eyebrows narrowed, but before he could reply, Morse's doctor appeared holding a clipboard.

"Ah, Inspector Thursday. Normally we can only give patient details to family members, but Morse has given us permission to make an exception. He has concussion, but thankfully no fractures to the skull or neck, and no internal bleeding. He will have a bad headache for a few days so we are going to keep him in for observation for a few days."

"He's going to love that," Jakes muttered under his breath, smirking.

"He did try and escape, but he didn't make it very far before falling over. Now that we've got him in bed, he just seems glad of having a lie down," the Doctor was smiling.

"Can we see him?" Thursday asked. "We won't get him upset or anything, just to see that he's ok. I can tell him to behave himself and stay put too."

"Well hopefully you will have a bit more luck than me. As long as you don't question him I suppose I can give you five minutes. I should warn you though, he is quite grumpy at the moment, so you may get a few snappy remarks," the Doctor explained, showing them to a side room with a curtain pulled round the bed.

"I'm sure I've seen him worse. Thank you Doctor."

Thursday and Jakes slipped through the gap in the curtain to see a sleeping Morse tucked up in the bed. He certainly looked a better colour than he had earlier, but there were still deep dark bags around his eyes.

His eyes flicked open and he glared at them. "What do you want?" he snapped at them.

He immediately looked shocked and embarrassed at his own outburst, and started fumbling out half articulated apologies.

"I'm sorry Sir, it's just I really want to sleep but they keep coming and waking me up again." Morse untucked his arms from the covers and started trying to sit up.

That's ok lad, don't worry yourself. And they're just being careful – another few hours and they'll let you drop off for a proper kip." Thursday sat down next to Morse and gently pushed him back onto the pillows, pulling the covers back up.

Morse glanced at Jakes, guessing why he was there. "I'm sorry Sir, but I can't really remember anything from last night," Morse croaked, his voice dry and raspy.

Without thinking, or having to be asked, Jakes poured a glass of water from the jug next to him. He handed it to Morse, who took a few gentle sips.

"That's ok Morse, wouldn't really expect you to remember anything after a head injury like that," Thursday was determined not to over exert his bagman.

"But Sir, Bright wants my statement?" Morse looked confused, glancing at Jakes again.

"Bright will get your statement when I decide you're ready to give it, and not before," Thursday stated sharply.

"Thanks Sir."

"No problem. In the meantime however, in return for me shielding you from Bright, you can sit tight, behave, and let the Doctors look after you for once. Deal?"

Morse sighed, looked up at the ceiling then nodded unwillingly, whilst secretly thinking that he was glad of an excuse to have a lie down for a few days. His head really did hurt, and every time he tried to get up he felt like he was going to throw up or pass out.

"Right well I think that's us for just now then. I'll pop back in later and see how you're getting on." Thursday and Jakes got up and left the room, and Morse closed his eyes and drifted off again.

* * *

 

Bright didn't like being bested by Thursday, not one little bit. However, even he couldn't argue that Morse was in any fit state to be questioned. Instead, to save face he shouted at Jakes, threatened Thursday then slammed the office door behind them, retreating into a dense cloud of cigarette smoke. The press had had a field day with the evidence room incident, and now they had somehow, inexplicably, got hold of the attack too.

Out of respect for Morse, Frazil at the Oxford Mail had held off the story, instead emblazoning the front page with the very murder Morse had been investigating. However, her competitors at the Oxford Press were more ruthless, the front page of the late edition sporting a picture of the ambulance outside the police station. The only small mercy was that they didn't seem to know the identity of the officer that had been injured. The chief constable had been on the phone to bright first thing that morning, making it clear that the whole sorry saga was to be over by the end of the week else the buck would stop with Bright.

* * *

 

Thursday and Jakes were mulling round the duty room, at a complete loss without Morse there to join the dots. Strange had popped in to ask after Morse and sign the report he had given to Jakes. Whilst there he had thought of something else – there had been a lingering smell of unusual aftershave in the corridor. Jakes raised his eyebrows with a disdainful expression, but Thursday wasn't for writing off any potential clues, no matter how remote they were.

When Thursday went to Morse's room during the evening visiting hours, it was to find his bagman propped up against a pile of pillows looking much better, and much happier.

"Evening Morse, you're looking much better," Thursday remarked.

"Yes, thanks Sir, they let me have a proper sleep this afternoon, and the Doc gave me good pills for the headache, I could probably go home soon," Morse said hopefully.

"I think not. Remember the deal we made this afternoon? Well I stuck to my side of it, and Bright is not happy one little bit."

"Thanks Sir."

"Don't mention it. Anyway, I brought you some stuff. There's a bag of some clothes and such from your flat, and Win insisted on making you some soup and sandwiches. She reckons you need more than hospital food to get your strength back up."

Morse opened the holdall Thursday handed him, and very quickly realised that he did not recognise one single item in the bag. All the clothes were brand new – a thick woolly jumper, a pristine white shirt and pinstripe trousers, and a crisp pair of pyjamas. The washbag still had the tag on it and contained a fluffy washcloth, the most wonderful smelling soap, and a razor and shaving soap. Morse felt a lump rise up in his throat, and was momentarily lost for words – he wasn't used to being cared for so thoroughly.

"Thanks Sir – you managed to find all these at my flat?" Morse asked, the tiniest hint of sarcasm creeping into his voice.

Thursday winked at him, and started emptying the contents of another carrier bag onto Morse's tray table. There was a flask, a brown paper bag and a glass bottle of barley water.

Morse was glad to see the provisions – he had pushed away tonight's rubbery scrambled eggs after a few queasy mouthfuls and had begun to regret it. To his embarrassment, his stomach growled approvingly, but Thursday just smiled and poured some of the barley water into his glass.

"So what have we got tonight then?" Thursday asked, picking up the paper bag

"Corned beef," Morse said without any hesitation

"You're surely feeling better then," Thursday remarked, handing Morse a corned beef sandwich on a plate the Nurse had given him. "One of these days you're going to tell me how you know."

Morse smiled secretively, and tucked into the sandwich, while Thursday poured some of the thick chicken soup into a bowl. The food was truly glorious. Morse could feel his energy levels increasing with each mouthful, and Thursday certainly noticed the marked increase of colour to his cheeks. Morse ate until he had his fill, feeling awkward when he noticed he had finished the whole flask.

"Well, you looked like you needed it," Thursday remarked.

Morse sat for a minute, absentmindedly chewing on the last sandwich crust, whilst simultaneously chewing over the evidence running through his now clear and refreshed brain.

"No, absolutely not. I know that face Morse. I don't want you worrying about the case until you are back on your feet," Thursday was stern.

"But Sir… the mustache. There's something not quite right about it."

Thursday knew it was fruitless to try and snap Morse out of his reverie, so decided to humour Morse and sit it out. Morse was sifting through his thoughts, the missing piece just out of his grasp. It then suddenly clicked into place, and he gasped, sitting upright.

"Sir the mustache, there was no adhesive on it."

Thursday just looked at him.

"How did he attach it to his face? He would have needed some form of fixative, whether cosmetic glue or an adhesive tape."

"Nothing is ever simple with you, is it Morse? Maybe the glue just wore off after it came off his face."

"There still would have been some trace, of anything sticky enough to keep it on skin. No, the moustache was planted as a red herring. The killer placed it there on purpose, trying to lead us off track. That means our killer probably has a mustache –that way we wouldn't suspect, as we would be looking for someone without a mustache, thinking they would have used it to disguise their appearance."

"Why would the killer bother breaking in to steal evidence he planted?"

"The lock of hair, Sir. That's what got left behind by accident, what the killer is after."

Thursday sighed, but knew there was no point in arguing with Morse. Instead, he stayed long enough to make sure Morse succumbed to the effect of the sleeping pill the Nurse brought him, then headed back to the station. He went straight for his filing cabinet, pouring out the contents of the envelope in front of a startled looking Jakes.

"By Jove, he's right," Thursday murmured, the unused mustache in his hand.


	4. Whodunit?

When Morse left the hospital three days later, it was to find Jakes sitting out front in a patrol car. The doctor's letter advising a week's sick leave and prescription for sleeping pills had been disposed of in the nearest bin. Morse slipped into the passenger seat of the car and Jakes, who was finishing off a cigarette, just nodded nonchalantly at him.

"DI's been pulled by Bright. Today is deadline day," Jakes explained in his usual gruff manner.

He shifted the car into gear and drove off down the street, heading back towards the nick.

"Jakes, any chance we could stop by the office of the Oxford press? There's something I want to check," Morse was in his thoughtful reverie.

"You fit for duty? Thought the Doc would tell you to lay up for a bit."

"Yes I'm fine, fit as a fiddle. Look I think I can solve this case today, get Bright off all our backs."

Although Jakes wasn't convinced by the first part of Morse's statement, he certainly couldn't argue with the latter. If anyone could solve this case, it was Morse. He spun the car around, heading towards the newspaper office, whilst Morse radioed in, requesting for Strange to meet them there.

"The editors name is Smith, isn't it? Joseph Smith?" Morse enquired. "I saw him at the station once, and Frazil has told me about him"

"Yeah, slimy git tried to corner us outside the hospital. Thursday ripped up his notebook and told him that if tried to come near you he would personally make sure he never printed another article."

Morse sat pondering the care and protection offered towards him, trying to convince himself that Thursday would do this for any of his officers, not just Morse. Would he though? Or was it just that he thought Morse needed extra protection? The thought embarrassed Morse, so he decided to settle on the theory that Thursday was simply a loyal colleague.

Joseph Smith was a tall, well-built man in his mid-forties. His eyes narrowed upon the officer's entrance, and he looked skeptical as Jakes introduced them both. Something about the room was tugging on Morse's memory, but the thought couldn't quite break through his lingering headache.

"I thought I was to stop harassing you lot? Or does it not count, seeing as you came to me this time?" Smith enquired sarcastically.

"We're just here to ask you a few questions Sir," Jakes answered, struggling to maintain the polite façade. Morse distinctly noticed Jakes flex his fist and crack his knuckles, but Smith was a good half foot taller and wider than him.

"And why should I answer yours when you refuse to answer mine?

Because if you don't, I could just as easily take you down the station," Morse spoke for the first time.

Smith looked at Morse, smiled and motioned with his hand for Morse to begin.

"Firstly Mr Smith, I was just wondering how you found out about the attack at our station?"

"Alas Constable, a good journalist never reveals his sources," Smith smiled genially. "Speaking of which, Morse, perhaps you could give me a quote on how you feel following your discharge from hospital?"

"Ok, well perhaps you could tell me what you did during the war?" Morse ignored the question smith had put to him.

"The war? I was on the front line fighting the Germans. Sergeant, where is he going with this?"

"Just answer the questions please, Sir." If Jakes was confused, he was managing not to show it. He had long since learned that there was method behind Morse's madness, and to just go with the flow.

"Why have you started wearing your hair gelled? When I last saw you, you let it sit naturally," Morse was getting in his flow of seemingly whacky questions.

"Why really, I must protest. Is a man not allowed to try out different styles, or is there some law against that? If you must know, I find gelling my hair gives me a more professional appearance," Smith was getting indignant.

"Is the real reason not that you have started gelling your hair only recently to hide the bald spot? The bold spot which matches the lock of hair I have in my evidence bag at the station, which was found in the hand of Jeanie Brocks dead body."

Smith started laughing, waggling his finger at Morse. "Why, this is a fun game, but so far you seem to be entertaining nothing but wild fantasies," Smith said. "What possible evidence could support such a claim? Are you going to go round all the ginger men of oxford making the same accusation simply because they have gelled hair?"

"No, not quite, but let me state my case. Firstly, it was only your paper that ran an article on the bin fire, making you ideally placed to know that evidence was no longer being kept in that room. It was therefore reasonable to assume that case evidence would be kept in the CID office. It wouldn't have been too difficult to slip past the front desk or through a side door once everyone had gone home for the night. That leads me onto my second point. No one else knew about the attack, none of the other local papers had got hold of it. So either you have a police officer feeding you information, or you were the attacker." Morse paused for breath, before diving back in again

"My name was definitely not released in connection to the incident, and you were banned from the hospital, so how did you know it was me? When you asked me earlier how I felt, you didn't recognise me by name, but by face from hitting me over the head. After leaving the station that night, you wrote up your story, came back for a photo then sent it to print. Also, there was something else bothering me about this room and it has just come to me – there is an unusual scent of aftershave here which I now remember from the assault, which another officer also mentioned. Finally, you just commented on me testing all the redheads of Oxford – I didn't tell you that the lock of hair we had was ginger." Morse finished, with an air of triumph, looking towards Jakes who looked utterly gobsmacked.

Mr Smith's smile had taken on a rather steely element, and he was looking at Morse with an expression that betrayed a very slight air of danger.

"Fascinating story, but why would I murder an innocent girl? I didn't even know the young lady," Smith condescended.

"Ah but that's not true though, is it? Miss Brocks wasn't as quiet and shy as her family made out. Six months ago, she applied to you for a job at this newspaper, and you turned her down flat. She didn't like that did she? So she started using her skills to investigate your past, try and dig up some dirt to get revenge. When I examined the electoral register, there is a Joseph Smith, but only going back as far as 1943 - Before that, Joseph Smith was called Schmidt. You were born in England to a German father and English mother, but in the late thirties your father took the family back to his homeland to join the war effort. Horrified by the thought you might be discovered and imprisoned, you returned to England and anglicised your name to slip seamlessly back in with society. Miss Brocks uncovered all of this, and threatened to go public unless you stood down and gave her a job as a news editor, leading to her transition to main editor within a year. You followed her through the park where she was found, killed her and planted the fake moustache as a double bluff. However, in the struggle Miss Brocks had managed to pull out a lock of your hair, but before you could remove it from her clenched hand you must have been disturbed. You ran away, and then tried to break into the station at the earliest opportunity to steal the incriminating evidence."

It was at times like this that Morse's lack of body mass counted against him. Smith grabbed Morse by the lapels and threw him across the desk with all his might – Morse crashed into a filing cabinet then landed on the floor whilst Smith fled for the door. Jakes, who had been momentarily stunned by Morse's genius, sprang into action but at that opportune moment Strange, who was just outside the door, stuck out his leg, sending smith sprawling on the floor. Strange and two more uniforms pinned their detainee to the ground while they arrested and cuffed him, then frog marched him off to a waiting car.

Jakes turned back to help Morse, and found him lying on the floor, blood coming from a gash on his forehead. He groaned as Jakes supported him into a sitting position and pressed a handkerchief on his head to try and stem the bleeding.

"Bloody hell Morse, did you have to go and get yourself injured on my watch? Thursday is going to take me to the cleaners and back now, you probably weren't even supposed to be at work," Jakes sighed with chagrin.

"Sorry Jakes. Least you'll have Bright off your back now," Morse was trying not to sound too amused. He didn't need to use his imagination; he knew all too well what Thursday was going to say to Jakes.

"Given the choice, I think I'd take Bright just now," Jakes muttered, helping Morse to his feet. "Right you, we're going back to casualty, and if you even think about resisting, I will arrest you and take you there in handcuffs."

Morse didn't doubt this, so he complied, letting Jakes help him into the car and drive him to accident and emergency without one word of complaint.


	5. Hospital Again

It was with a mixed sense of trepidation and Déjà vu that Morse found himself once again lying on an examination bed in a hospital cubicle. When the curtain twitched and the doctor came in, Morse internally groaned. It was the same Doctor that had discharged him not but an hour ago, and when he looked at Morse with raised eyebrows, he knew he was for it this time.

"Don't ask," Morse offered, by way of an explanation.

"Don't tell," the Doctor replied, grimacing.

Morse was once again sent to x-ray, but this time he managed without throwing up. There were no fractures, and as the blow hadn't been as severe this time, it hadn't exacerbated the pre-existing concussion. Morse was lying on the bed with the doctor giving him stitches when a severe looking Thursday came marching into the cubicle.

"For goodness sake Morse, I leave you alone for all but 5 minutes. I don't know what Jakes was thinking. I've half a mind to take you into protective custody for your own safety," Thursday stormed at a sheepish looking Morse.

The doctor smiled, and Morse realised why he hadn't given him a ticking off – he was obviously depending on the superior officer to do a far better job.

"Well we got him, didn't we Sir? Bright can let the Chief Constable know that he won't be needing that transfer now," Morse suggested innocently, practically batting his eyelashes at Thursday.

"Yes, well that's the only reason I'm not handcuffing you to a hospital bed," Thursday snorted, not fooled by Morse's act for one second. "What's the damage this time Doctor?"

"Again, nothing too serious. No more concussion, just this cut. Some bed rest, then the stitches can be taken out in a few weeks. Perhaps if I give these to you this time they will actually get used? The last one ended up in a bin." The doctor handed Thursday another sick note and a prescription for sleeping pills.

"Don't worry Doctor, I'll see to it," Thursday threatened, shooting a stern look at a now anxious looking Morse.

The Doctor signed the discharge sheets, and Morse hopped down from the bed, only swaying very slightly. Thursday took Morse by both shoulders and marched him down to the pharmacy, pocketing the bottle of pills he was given.

He didn't even bother with the station, he took Morse straight back to the Thursday's house and ordered Morse into pyjamas. He went back to the station for a few hours to sort out the remaining formalities from the case, leaving Win to coo and fuss over Morse. He returned with another suitcase of clothes from Morse's flat, and the case he had left in Jakes' car.

Thursday made Morse stay off work and at their house for the full week. He wasn't allowed out of bed, and each night Thursday personally stood over Morse whilst he took the sleeping pill the doctor had provided. Over the weekend, to Morse's utter humiliation, Joan took on the nursing duties. She would bring him his food and sit at the bottom of his bed talking to him, then call her dad every time she caught him out of bed. She seemed to enjoy watching him squirm, but after a few hours he loosened up, beginning to enjoy the company. Sure, he had to endure the good natured jibes from Sam too, but truth be told he enjoyed it. It was nice to fit so effortlessly into a family unit, and he absolutely loved Wins cooking. Thursdays affections towards Morse had gone much further even than the deepest colleague connection, and the bond was becoming ever closer to that of father and son.

Morse put on a satisfying amount of weight, and when the Thursday family GP visited at the end of the week, he was surprised at how well Morse looked, giving the two head injuries within a short space of time. It really did support the notion that affection and good food were just as or even more effective than hospital treatment and medicines.

After his second hospital visit, Morse had rung Frazil from the confines of his bed, giving her the exclusive. The Oxford press, unable to cope with the loss of its editor and the ensuing backlash, had closed down. Dorothea was very happy with this turn of events, as her own publication now received winder interest, and thus a substantial increase in profits. Morse knew he had gained a powerful ally.

When Morse was eventually allowed to return to duty, Bright came strolling down the corridor, and eagerly shook Morse's hand, pumping it up and down whilst exclaiming how lovely it was to see Morse back on his feet. Thursday gave Morse a wry smile from behind Bright's back, knowing that this saving Bright's skin would stand them in very good stead next time either of them messed up or needed a favour.

**Author's Note:**

> So I realise that maybe it was a bit of a contradiction that none of the other papers had got hold of the attack, and no one knew it was Morse attacked, then that Frazil hadn't run the story out of respect for Morse. What I meant here was that Frazil got hold of the story after it became public knowledge - she didn't know it was Morse that had been attacked, but decided not to print the story to do the police a favour, similar to the scene in Fugue where she gives them 24 hours before going to print.


End file.
